On The Menu Today, Disaster
by TharaCorleone
Summary: Having both Elliott and Maurice in the Uppers kitchen will only result in disaster and one of them getting VERY ticked off.  NOTE: This contains a LOT of swearing due to Elliott having some basis in Gordon Ramsey in my headcanon.


"...no sugar here because of Sydney's latest diet, no salt there because of Wayne's condition, minimal fat because Jonas is a fucking vain _asshole_..."

If Elliot was used to anything, it was rushing around the kitchen as he tried to prepare thirty or so separate dishes; his fellow Uppers had some of the most picky palettes in his entire history of cooking. Some of it was down to allergies, some of it was down to doctor's orders; but what pissed him off most was fussiness- sometimes he'd deliberately make a disliked dish for someone just to make a point.

In all his running around, the chef in question wasn't properly alert; his lack of vigilance soon resulting in a rather tricky situation regarding the containers and dishes on the counter.

"Shit, the egg got into Janine's! And I can't give it to Zatman because he hates anything Italian. Gaaaah! Stupid fucking fussy _pricks_!"

Despite his rage, one bang on the counter was enough to make Elliot stop. All he'd done was cause himself a killer pain in his hand, which was only going to make things worse.

Suddenly, he heard slight scuffling in the doorway; convinced he knew who it was, he didn't even acknowledge the newcomer with a look in their direction- unexpected ingredients were no problem, but unexpected visitors were denied all entry.

"Dorian, I keep fucking telling you! Fuck off when I'm preparing the fucking dinner!"

"You are preparing dinner? Pardon-moi, but Herman just told me that I was to prepare dinner."

The fact that the voice had a French accent caused Elliot to turn around. Noticing a tall, slim man in a clean gourmet chef's outfit, he couldn't help giving a somewhat suspicious look.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I believe we haven't made acquaintances yet. My name is Maurice, I'm the newcomer to this clan."

The taller chef had his hand held out to shake, but he quickly withdrew when he noticed his clan mate's stony, arms-folded stance and expression.

"Don't tell me it was that dick Herman who offered you a place."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult him, mon ami, he's actually a decent Monsieur."

"Don't call _me_ ami, you frog, I don't make friends with my fucking rivals!" Elliott snapped, his stare slowly turning into a glare. "Besides...do you have a restaurant yet?"

"Mais oui, it's a little place called Le Pain de Vie."

For a split second, Elliot's expression couldn't help showing a glimmer of awe; Le Pain de Vie, or "The Bread of Life", had only been around for what seemed like it's baby-steps compared to Clint City's other restaurants, but it was already taking in thousands in weekly figures. Many of the members of the clans had expressed an interest in eating there, with bookings confirmed weeks in advance to it's sheer popularity.

"Fuck, you've got a nice place," Elliot remarked, trying his best to sound enthusiastic as he turned back to his cookery. However, the conversation was not over at that point, much to his annoyance.

"But don't think I don't know about the Platinum Bistro, Monsieur Elliot" said Maurice, his smile looking too much like a smirk. "You've mentioned it enough times on that show on yours, which is ok if you can stand all those cameras in your face."

"You _don't_ have a show?" The other male asked, sounding rather surprised; all the top chefs in Clint City had their own show, except for maybe Spyce who'd been disallowed due to cases of food poisoning within his own clan.

"I don't stoop down to television's level."

"_If Dorian heard you say that, you'd be so fucking dead,_" thought Elliot, darting another unimpressed look. Sure, Maurice was famous and sure, he had a restaurant aswell. But he was French- who liked the snooty, stuck-up frogs?

"So I heard it was Dorian who showed you round the place. You getting on with Mr Fucking-High-And-Mighty?" He asked, secretly hoping to hear that the influential had gone off on one and done something useful like give Maurice what for.

"The influential one? Well at least it's true what they say about good things and petit packages. He looks taller on his show."

"Well at least you didn't make the same mistake I did and call him a midget. But then he wasn't as influential or dangerous a few years back- the only threat he posed was to the credibility of whoever made those fucking horrendous suits. And seriously, have you _seen_ his older broadcasts? It's like he's on Red Dragon or whatever it's fucking called."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the past and history of all these shows," said Maurice, looking rather embarrassed.

"What a fucking surprise, Frenchie."

"I'm surprised they let _you_ on television with _your_ language. You've done nothing but swear since I walked into here."

"Somehow, I manage to watch my mouth when I'm on air. But then why should I feel the need to when everything's a piece of piss and the audience fucking love you? Prepare the food, a little banter, check up on it, more banter and then finish the dish. But you can't finish one of Smith's creations without his famous signature completion."

"And how does that go?"

"BAM!"

With that one exclamation, he'd swung his arms out in a rather dramatic fashion to emulate his usual pose of completion; only to be rewarded with the sounds of clunking and splattering. When Elliot turned round, he couldn't believe what had just happened.

"Oh _SHIT_!" He screamed, immediately moving away from the growing puddle of mess and mixture; in his distracted state, he'd forgotten how close he'd been to the standing dishes. In his frantic panic, he suddenly bent down and attempted to scoop the mixtures together, as if he thought he could retrieve his work.

What had taken him hours to create had taken him just mere seconds to destroy.

Maurice couldn't help feeling sorry for Elliot; bending down to his level in an attempt to sympathise with him. He dipped his finger in the multi-flavoured slop; only to shudder a little at the clash of mixtures. It wasn't one of the _nicer_ things he had tasted.

"Just stay there and I can get something to help you with your little accident, oui?"

"You do fucking realise this is entirely _your_ fucking fault, right? These hadn't even been in the oven yet!"

The whole situation reminded Maurice of his own mistakes when he began his career; however, both chefs were perfectly aware that Elliot was not starting out and that he took failure pretty badly. The French male was about to open his mouth to apologise when he was interrupted by a rather pissed-off snarl.

"Get. Out."

"But Monsieur Elliot..."

"GET OUT OF MY FUCKING KITCHEN!"

Maurice had heard rumours that Elliot was all too quick to start throwing punches once threats had been made; not wanting to stick around to see if said rumours were true, he hastily made his exit before the other chef could even touch him. What made things even more awkward was bumping into Dorian; the fact the influential had been so close to the door made it obvious that he'd been eavesdropping.

"Monsieur Dorian, I..."

"You're not the first, and you certainly won't be the last," He said, his expression giving it away that he'd been through exactly the same. "Elliot's just over-sensitive and your coming is sending him over the edge."

With those words, Dorian made it clear that he wasn't going to stick around for much longer. But only after a few steps he stopped, as if he'd just remembered something he needed to say.

"By the way, what do you mean by television's _level_?"

"Ah so you _did_ hear," said Maurice, rather guiltily. "Well, I'm just not the kind who likes to parade around the cameras and expects the masses to kiss my derrière."

As he shook his head, Dorian couldn't help chuckling a little; once again, someone who wasn't in the business was trying and failing to understand it.

"Parade is such an _ugly_ person's word, Maurice. I'm merely presenting myself for the public, that's all."

"Are presenters supposed to shout at people? Pardon-moi for saying so, but I've heard so much around this city regarding your show. Some have compared you to Maury Povich and call you Maury. Now that, I can understand. But what I don't understand is how they're calling you _Jeremy_."

"Aswell as ugly people, this city's full of _stupid_ people," the other Upper replied, sighing in obvious frustration. "They seem to think that me and that British tard Jeremy Kyle are alike. It could be because we don't take nonsense, or it could be because we call people on a lot things. Or maybe-"

"It's because they're both _short, narcissistic pricks_, if you ask me."

With arms folded, Elliot was leaning against the kitchen door as if he was a prop; looking rather bedraggled and scruffy from his big tidying-up mission. Whereas the mess had been on the floor, it was now on his clothes in splats and spurts, even crawling up his bare arms.

"Up yours, Elliot."

"Up yours, you wanker," he replied, before looking in the other chef's direction. "Don't think I didn't have a Plan B, you! I just started preparing a lovely little vol-au-vent which just needed a little oven-time. Well I say that,but the the little shit's big enough to feed the fucking five thousand."

"But I thought you told me to get out of your fucking kitchen?" Maurice pondered, looking rather confused.

"Hey, if I'm going to have a rival, I need to see if he's any fucking _good_ right? If you are, it'd be a _first_," he explained, shooting a rather arrogant look in Dorian's direction; only to be welcomed with a furious "You!"

"Dorian, do us all a favour and take some fucking banter. You can come and help too, but that's only because it never hurts to have a spare pair of hands, even if they do belong to a short, vain prick like yourself."

As the three males made their way back into the kitchen, the influential began to make hushed talk with Maurice.

"Seriously, you need to get into television work. If you had a show, you'd certainly beat Elliot in the ratings."

"Just because the oven's on, don't think I can't fucking hear you!" Elliot exclaimed, shutting the oven door; suddenly giving a yelp when he realised his apron strings had been tied to the oven railings. After a bit of tugging it was obvious he was stuck, but of course Dorian was too busy laughing to immediately help; with Maurice joining in with his own sniggering when he caught glance of the other chef's pissed-off expression.

"You Uppers sure are a bizarre bunch. Being a part of your clan is going to be..._interessant_, to say the least."

"That's all well and good but is someone going to fucking untie me?"

Let's just say that Elliott was there for a good ten minutes before Dorian and Maurice could even breathe again.


End file.
